


belief without proof

by SyntheticRevenge



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Asexual Character, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Mental Health Issues, Pre-Canon, Relationship Study, the day I learn to tag is the day I die apparently
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:28:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28053915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SyntheticRevenge/pseuds/SyntheticRevenge
Summary: “Did, um. Would you like an excuse to not have to go back to the party?” Jonathan asks, lip twitching a bit. “I thought of one.”“Enlighten me.”“Someone who was also outside having a smoke asked you out.”“Oh, that’s not bad,” Georgie says, tapping her chin in mock contemplation.“I thought it might not be.”(Moments from Jon and Georgie's relationship)
Relationships: Georgie Barker/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 16
Kudos: 88





	belief without proof

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes you just vomit 3k of jongeorgie feelings, I guess. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> CW: alcohol and drug use, struggling with serious mental health issues (delusions)

Georgie doesn’t smoke. Never has. She doesn’t fear death, but that doesn’t mean she should shout in its face--but this is a boring fucking party and the only excuse she can possibly find to dodge out of it for a moment is going for a smoke.

So she tells the guy who’s trying to explain dark matter to her (as if it wasn’t her favorite fucking thing to learn about in physics) that she’ll be back in a minute and makes her escape onto the sidewalk. It’s cold outside, a far cry from the oppressive heat and vague damp of the flat she was pressed into, and she just breathes for a relieved moment.

There’s someone else standing about ten feet away, smoking and hugging himself. She recognizes him from one of her lectures and, more recently, this absolutely shit party. He looks very much like he’s attempting to escape as badly as she is, and he’s sort of cute, maybe, in a Sherlock-Holmes-With-Anxiety type of way. 

He pointedly avoids eye contact. She’s a little drunk and fear hasn’t held her back from anything for a good two years now besides, so she closes the distance between them.

“Hi,” she says, and he blinks, like he’s completely startled she’s speaking to him.

“Um. Hello.”

“You escaping too?” she asks, tilting her head at the building, and a sort of pained but genuine smile briefly ripples across his face. 

“Just needed a cigarette,” he says, laughing nervously and shrugging, brandishing the fag as if to show her his alibi.

“It’s alright, I’m no rat,” Geogie says. “It is  _ horrid _ up there.”

“That’s why I started smoking,” he says, looking at her briefly, and then away again. “Best excuse to hide.”

“Yeah, I’m considering starting myself,” Georgie says.

“You shouldn’t,” the man says, suddenly somewhat intense. “I wish I hadn’t, just--”

“I was joking.” Georgie puts her hands up, smiling. “I’m fine lying.”

“You’re in my logic class, aren’t you,” he says, squinting.

“Yep,” she says. “Georgie Barker.”

“Jonathan Sims,” he says, half-smiling. “Nice to--nice to meet you.”

“You too.”

“You a fan of logic?” he asks, clearly struggling for conversation. It’s adorable.

“I mean, I generally think it’s an important thing that clearly not enough people learn to use,” Georgie says, shrugging. “But yeah, I am. I like--I like being able to explain the world with  _ if, then _ s. Makes it less terrifying.”

“There’s no such thing as a real-life  _ if, then _ ,” Jonathan says.

“No?” Georgie crosses her arms. 

“No,” Jonathan says. “Correlation and causation aren’t the same thing.”

“That’s philosophy,” Georgie says. “Logic only works if you accept that things lead to each other.”

“I don’t agree. I think mathematical logic is sort of fun, you know, like solving a puzzle or untangling a knot--” Jonathan starts.

“Oh, yes, untangling a knot is definitely a classically  _ fun _ thing to do.”

“--but it can’t speak for all of reality,” Jonathan continues, undeterred. “I don’t think everything _ can _ be explained by something else.”

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

“I don’t know,” he says, after a moment of thought. “I haven’t been convinced either way.”

“I do,” Georgie says. “And I think they can be explained rationally, just like everything else.”

“I’d love to hear that explanation,” Jonathan says, completely genuinely, and something in her heart twinges.

“Yeah, me too, mate.” She laughs, and they both fall silent for a moment.

“Did, um. Would you like an excuse to not have to go back to the party?” Jonathan asks, lip twitching a bit. “I thought of one.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Someone who was also outside having a smoke asked you out.”

“Oh, that’s not bad,” Georgie says, tapping her chin in mock contemplation.

“I thought it might not be.”

* * *

“I had a girlfriend who told me about--she was doing a seance, yeah? And--” Georgie starts, trying to remember the story through the thick, blurry haze of cheap wine and bad weed. Jon squints at her, intently, clearly trying to focus his entire attention on her. “And, um, she and her friend, they were using a ouija board, and they just  _ totally _ lost control of it. Like it was moving and spelling out nonsense without either of them trying, and they couldn’t--like they felt like they weren’t in control of their bodies anymore, like hysterically laughing but totally depersonalized, and her little sister had to get them free?”

“Hmm.” Jon looks away, briefly, considering. “I don’t know. That’s--I mean, it’s all very hearsay? And sometimes people, you know, they--they feed each other’s sort of...well, delusions? Like, uh, folie a deux.”

“You are  _ so _ pretentious.”

“That’s what it’s  _ called _ .”

“I know! Still pretentious,” Georgie says. “I don’t know, I believe her. She was a skeptic. But her room was  _ proper _ haunted. I heard a deep, male voice in my ear when I woke up once, and she hadn’t said or heard anything.”

“You were dreaming,” Jon says, crossing his arms, shrugging it off.

“And she had, um, she had a dead ex-boyfriend, and I had this dream in her bed that the two of them were talking, and I couldn’t hear words, just saw him and heard his voice,” Georgie says. “Mind you, I’d never seen a picture of him, never met him, but I  _ knew _ it was him. I woke up, and I described it all, and she said that it was him, and she’d been dreaming about him too.”

“Coincidence,” Jon says. “Believing what you wanted to believe. You could’ve just described poorly and she could’ve been so desperate to believe he was still out there that she convinced herself you’d seen him.”

“I hate you,” Georgie says, shaking her head and smiling. 

“Mmm,” Jon says. “Join the club.”

“Shut  _ up _ .” Georgie rolls her eyes. “You are  _ so _ boring.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to believe!” Jon says, throwing his hands up. “I  _ do _ believe, actually, I just--I just want something--something to prove it. So I know I’m not just...suggestible. Delusional."

“So you think that by its very nature, belief without proof is delusion?” Georgie asks, crossing her arms and squinching her face.

“I mean, yes!” Jon shrugs, helplessly, lighting Georgie’s decidedly Goth bong (the one he  _ very _ pretentiously decided was called Nepenthe last week after a long day and several bowls) and taking a long hit. 

“So...religion…?”

“Delusional,” Jon says, smoke spilling out. He chokes, coughs slightly, but nothing ever deters him from talking. “Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Georgie repeats, raising her eyebrows. “So, why do you believe, then?”

They’ve skirted this, but never spoken about it outright. “A delusion,” Jon says, a wry smile half-twisting his face. “Don’t actually think it was real, but it  _ felt  _ it.”

“Any details?”

“Just something I thought I saw when I was a kid. Brain puts up all sorts of shields to deflect trauma.” He shrugs again, takes another hit. 

“You pass out on my floor again and I am  _ not _ tweaking my back carrying you,” Georgie says.

“Coward,” Jon says. “You couldn’t.”

“I  _ did _ .”

“I think I made it to bed and you lied to me because you wanted to seem strong.” Jon gives her a deeply petulant look.

“Believe whatever you want, mate, but, uh...belief without proof is delusion, so.” She shrugs, and Jon beams, leaning in to kiss her.

She’s genuinely surprised. Sure, he technically asked her out the first time they properly met, but since then it’s been very friendship-shaped. They’ve hung out a few times, gotten properly fucked up, talked, watched paranormal documentaries. She thought that’s all it would end up being, and she was fine with that.

She’s even more fine with this, even if she’s fairly certain Jon has no concept of how humans are meant to kiss. It’s very chaste eight-year-old, and she leans in, trying to give it a  _ little _ more spice.

She bites his lip and he jolts back, hard.

“Sorry,” she says, eyes wide, shame not quite permeating the wine-layer in the atmosphere of her mind.

“Um,” Jon says, blinking. “No, sorry, I just didn’t know that was…”

“What?”

“Allowed…?” Jon finishes, voice tiny, and she laughs so hard she tears up a bit. He looks deeply embarrassed, and she feels like a  _ monster _ for not being able to control the things, words or otherwise, that come out of her mouth.

“No, shit, Jon, I just--that’s adorable. You’re adorable.”

“Am I?” Jon’s voice is still small.

“Yes,” Georgie says, decisively, with a nod for emphasis. “Yes, you are.”

“G-good, then,” Jon says, nodding back, like they’ve just sealed a contract. She half-expects him to put his hand out for her to shake, but he doesn’t, just nervously brushes a hair behind his ear and experimentally leans in to kiss her again.

* * *

Georgie drags Jon to his first ever Pride. They swap clothes for it, for fun, Jon in immaculate makeup and Georgie’s slightly-too-big sequined minidress, Georgie in one of his never-ironed button-ups and a tie neither of them quite knows how to tie, even with the Internet’s help.

They look  _ great _ , and Jon cries silently watching the parade, hand pressed over his mouth, eyeliner running. It’s a genuinely beautiful moment, overshadowed slightly by how absolutely hammered he gets on flavored vodka after the fact. 

On the walk back, draped over her, treacherous and oddly perfectly-sized heels dangling from his free hand, Jon pauses his unfocused rant on being gay in ancient civilizations and goes quiet. 

“What?” Georgie asks, and Jon sighs, a high-pitched, small sound.

“Is is strange we haven’t had sex yet?” he asks, looking at her, losing focus on walking and weaving hard into her side. It’s not much weight to bear, and he doesn’t knock her far off course.

That’s a question Georgie’s sort of been asking herself, if she’s honest. It’s not like she  _ needs _ it, she’s happy with them how they are, but they’ve been dating for months, and usually sex is just part of a relationship by now, she figures. “No?” is the best response she can come up with.

Jon sighs, seemingly relieved. “Alright. Good.” He pauses again. “Are you sure? Because--if you--I mean, if you  _ want _ to, then--”

“Only if you do,” Georgie says.

Jon sighs again, a more contemplative sigh this time. “I don’t--I don’t actually think I do?”

“That’s fine.”

“Are you sure?” Jon asks again, more intently this time. “Because obviously I want to be fair to you, and my--I mean, I’m willing to  _ try _ , I just--”

“Jon,” Georgie says, stopping, sliding Jon off of her and gently pushing him against a wall so they can face each other. He clearly struggles desperately to focus on her. It’s an expression she’s seen a lot. She thinks sometimes she should be worried about how much he drinks--how much  _ both _ of them drink together, actually, though lately he’s been worse than her. She puts her hands around his face and shakes gently. “We are not doing anything you’re not one hundred percent sure of. Alright? If you  _ want _ to have sex with me, then great. But if you’re really not certain, it’s not happening. Got it?”

“Yes,” Jon says, nodding, making a pained face.

“What’s--are you--”

“I’m going to be ill, give me a moment.”

“Just not on my dress,” Georgie sighs.

* * *

In the fall, they move in together. It’s nice, at first. Domestic. They even get a cat, which Jon names the Admiral, because he thinks it’s fun to address animals like very fancy people. Georgie thinks she could see the rest of her life playing out like this, maybe, since not even the concept of commitment scares her anymore.

Jon’s a shit cook, but he tries  _ really _ hard, even if every time something calls for wine he ends up drinking the remainder he’s not using. Georgie keeps telling him he’s got to practice because she is  _ never _ going to be a housewife. 

They spend most nights studying, watching documentaries, playing with the cat. They don’t talk as much as they used to, but the silence is natural, for the most part. It’s very routine, like finding Jon passed out on the floor next to the Admiral’s bowl after feeding him in the middle of the night.

It’s getting to the point where Georgie  _ knows _ she should say something. She just doesn’t really know how. Jon  _ tries _ . He’s still doing really well in all his classes, he’s still present and affectionate with her when it counts--well, maybe he’s just been like this the whole time and she never noticed because they weren’t living together. Not that that makes it  _ okay _ , but--

She’s not scared for him, because she’s not scared of anything, but she sort of wishes she could be, because as is, the numbness is making it hard to take action. So she just...lets things go.

Two months into the semester, Georgie comes home from a night lecture to find Jon biting his nails bloody, staring at the ceiling and hugging himself.

“You alright?” she asks, swinging her bag off her shoulder and squinting in concern, rushing towards him.

He jolts like he didn’t notice the sound of the door opening or anything else, and only spares her a glance before looking back at the spot he was fixated on. “There was a spider.”

Georgie knows about his arachnophobia. Knows it’s debilitating, but he won’t ever talk about why, and she doesn’t push. It doesn’t really matter. She’s a big girl and she can take care of the spiders for him. She’s never seen him this frayed over one before.

“I don’t see it,” Georgie says, looking up.

“Yes, it’s--it’s gone, but--” Jon looks  _ haunted _ . Some pit opens in her stomach. “I think they’re living in the walls. I can--I think--”

“Jon, we don’t have spiders in the walls,” Georgie says, firmly, sitting down next to him.

“No, they’re  _ there _ , I--”

“How do you know?”

“I just  _ do _ ,” Jon snaps, pulling at his hair. “They’re  _ everywhere _ , I think--I think they get there through the--remember when I found one in the closet? I bet there’s some sort of  _ hole _ , and--the walls are probably  _ filled _ with webs, we should move, it’s--”

“Jon, hey,” Georgie says, trying to calm him down with a hand on his back. “Remember your thing? Belief without proof is--”

“Delusion. I know,” Jon says, meeting her eyes. “I know. I--” He sighs, heavily, trying to get air in. “I know it’s not real. I just--no, I don’t.”

“If we wouldn’t have to answer to anyone, I’d suggest putting a hole in the wall to check, but…”

“No, I...I know,” Jon says. “I’m sorry.”

“No need,” Georgie says, squeezing his hand and kissing him on the cheek. He gets up, shakily, and leans out the window to light a cigarette. She watches him and chews the inside of her lip, completely unsure of how to proceed. 

“I, uh,” Jon starts, not looking back at her. “I read a book when I was a child. About a-a horrible, grotesque,  _ insatiable  _ spider that ate people. Well, not--but I guess it got in my head, because I--someone died, and I thought--” His shoulders are hunched, body language completely defensive and terrified. A memory he doesn’t want to be having.

Strange to be so close with someone so afraid when fear just doesn’t touch her anymore. “It’s alright, Jon, you don’t have to explain.”

“It’s not  _ rational _ . I’m just--” Jon gestures at his head, still not turning to look at her. “I’m all--” He sighs. “I thought I was doing better.”

“Do you have meds for--” Georgie starts, as gently as she can manage.

“Yes,” Jon says, then quickly, “No. It’s...well. I had anxiety medication, but I--I couldn’t be trusted. With it. So.”

“Oh,” Georgie says, softly.

“I’m alright,” Jon says. “I’ll--I’ll be alright. I promise.”

* * *

Jon’s not alright. He claims he’s always being watched, that a woman in one of his classes has been  _ replaced _ , that there are spiders weaving dense webs in the walls of their flat. 

He’s clearly trying to drown it out, too, which isn’t helping. Every attempt to drink it down just makes him more cornered and vicious. Georgie loves him, but there’s only so much she can take. 

She gets him to go to therapy again, finally, but he walks out after half a session because  _ he wasn’t taking me seriously, Georgie, he--he wouldn’t listen _ . 

She can’t help him if he’s not going to do anything to help himself. It’s not fair to her. She’s still in love with him, his soft eyes and sharp focus and the way he thinks and speaks, but it’s not worth this. Nothing would be. It would be one thing if he were trying--trying to get  _ help _ , not just struggling with his own mind and shoving flimsy crutches in to try and keep himself going.

After yet another sleepless, stressful night, Georgie decides she can’t handle it anymore. She rolls over and looks him dead in the eye and tells him. Keeps it simple. “I can’t do this, Jon.”

“I was wondering when you were finally going to get there,” Jon says, softly, voice shot and exhausted, looking away. “I understand.”

“It’s not that I don’t love you.”

“It’s alright, Georgie, you don’t have to--” He sighs. “I love you too.”

“I can’t save you.”

“It’s not your job to,” Jon says. “You don’t have to--I don’t need a speech. I get it.”

“I really want you to get better, Jon,” she says, taking his hand. He doesn’t pull it away, but doesn’t squeeze it back.

“I know. I will, eventually.”

“I know,” Georgie says. “I’m sorry.”

“You shouldn’t be.” Jon gets himself out of bed, picks up the Admiral where he’s sitting in the doorway, and just stands there holding him for a moment, before putting him back down. “When do you want me out?”

“No time in particular.”

“Alright.”

* * *

Jon comes to Georgie exhausted and stressed and covered in strange scars, and her heart  _ pangs _ . A burning feeling, nostalgia and concern and affection. She missed him.

“Thank you” is the first and only thing he says before she wraps her arms around him and squeezes, and he closes his eyes, settling into it, hugging her back, shuddering slightly with what she assumes are tears.

She doesn’t ask him why he’s here, or what’s happening in his head, or how he got the scars. She just lets him in, makes him cocoa, watches his deeply adorable and affectionate reunion with the Admiral. She’s glad to have him here. He’s more polite than he used to be, more distant and tired, but still, under the layers of what she assumes are trauma she can’t ever know or understand, fundamentally himself, opinionated and odd and intense.

If she thinks there’s a possibility he did something horrible he won’t tell her about, well. Belief without proof, and all that. She wants him to be innocent, because she wants him here, at least for a bit longer, so she can will herself to think he is.

Besides, it’s hard to imagine someone like Jon ever doing something monstrous, so she doesn’t try. Not yet.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! All feedback is appreciated <3  
> Find me on tumblr @witnesstotheend


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